


A Slip Up

by downdeepinside



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Reichenbach AU, S3 spoilers, prompted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1192863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downdeepinside/pseuds/downdeepinside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Anderson had said there was so much that could've gone wrong in Sherlock's master plan. So, what it? What if it had gone wrong?</p><p>Also written for a prompt on tumblr a while back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Slip Up

**Author's Note:**

> Trying my hand at a different writing style. I'm not sure I like it but, hey ho! It was a laugh.
> 
> I FORGOT! Major warning for swearing!

Falling.

Falling and,

Well,

Shit.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

Was it supposed to happen this way?

Sirens

In the background, there are sirens and they are

Loud.

They hurt his

Head.

Shit

Falling.

John.

Falling for

John.

John?

Shit.

***

The cyclist had frozen in surprise because, well, boss wasn’t meant fall like that. Was he. Was he?

Nah, boss definitely was meant to land... well, somewhere near the big blue trampoline thing.  Yet, instead, he hit the pavement. There was this horrible cracking sound and…

Jesus.

The cyclist doesn’t like this – this isn’t how it was supposed to happen. He imagines his boss tripped, got confused, panicked. He imagines years in prison, for helping the silly man kill himself (actually properly _kill_ himself) and he decides, today, he’ll cycle in the opposite direction to what he’s been told.

He hops on his bike and he cycles away from the nice doctor fellow, the one who’s running towards Mr Holmes and screaming out for help.

***

“You – you we- _are_ the most human… human being that I’ve ever known and… no one is going to convince me you ever told a lie,” John’s hands are shaking and he’s avoiding looking at the man lying in the hospital bed below him. He’s trying to remember, trying to keep the sound of the heart monitor at the forefront of his mind.

He keeps getting his tenses mixed up.

“Not even you, you bastard. You’re not. You’re not going to convince me, you hear? You’re not…”

John’s legs give out and he falls into the visitor’s chair.

“You’re not going to wake up, are you?”

***

The stairs.

Got to make it

To

The stairs.

Oh shit

Shit

Shit

Shit shit shit shit shit.

***

Pull open the sheet, place it in position, wait, and then get rid of it. Wait for the replacement body, and swap it out. Those are her instructions. Simple. It should all run like clockwork.

It should.

And yet, she watches as Mr Holmes bends his knees ever so slightly, trying to jump down rather than up.

He steps towards the edge of the building and, as he falls, his left foot leaves his right behind.

Like a bird knocked off its course.

He falls in the wrong. Damned. Place.

***

Sherlock sleeps. He sleeps, and he sleeps, and nothing really changes. Severe head injuries will do that to you, John supposes. He stays by Sherlock’s side, oftentimes with his eyes flickering over the man’s face and his hands tangled in the mess of bed sheets over his sleeping friend, and occasionally with his tired head resting in his aching arms.

***

Holmes, or Shezza as he used to be known, hits the ground with this fucking grim noise. Beth gasps next to me, and Wiggins steps forwards before freezing when he remembers there’s fuck all he can do to help.

We’re all wearing the scrubs, see. We all look the part. But really, well, really we’re just a bunch of good for nothings. We take pictures, we can source information.

He can’t save a fucking life.

The Watson fella, the one who all this had been for, well he runs forward. All of us, in our scrubs and with our fake (and fucking irritating) glasses just stand there shell shocked.

Watson asks Holmes if he can hear him, and when there’s no response he starts compressions.

One, two, three, all the way to thirty. Then two breaths. Then more compressions.

The real doctors turn up, after a bit.

I think Watson’s arms are going to ache a bitch.

***

Swearing is inelegant.

Timing is

Weird.

Head hurts.

Shit.

.

Yeah, shit.

***

On the third day, Sherlock’s fingers twitch.

It brings hope, but also fear.

***

The stairs.

Had forgotten about the stairs. But then, sirens, and a headache, and everything’s so….

The stairs.

Find them, climb them, wake up.

Find them.

Climb them

Wake up.

Right.

***

After the twitching, comes the breathing.

Sherlock is allowed to breathe on his own (finally) and they pull out a few of the tubes.

Late at night, when John’s staring at the detective’s face and wondering if this was really the idiots plan, he thinks he sees the man’s eyelids flutter. But it’s dark, and it could be the lighting.

Must be.

***

The front door.

The light.

Oh,

Yes.

John.

Here I come.

John?


End file.
